


A Storybook Ending

by JJJunky



Category: Hogan's Heroes, Twelve O'Clock High (1964)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:25:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJJunky/pseuds/JJJunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gallagher ends up in Stalag 13</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Storybook Ending

A Storybook Ending  
By JJJunky

For Susan

 

Schweinfurt, Germany

From his P-51 Mustang, Colonel Joseph Gallagher watched the strike on the ball-bearing factory, happy to see most of the bombs were falling on the intended target. However, there was a lot of flak in their path as the bombers turned west to head home. He waited anxiously to see if any of the aircraft were damaged badly enough they would be forced to fall behind. If that happened, he wasn't sure he could go through with his own mission. It would be difficult to leave ten men defenseless against the fighters waiting for stragglers outside the flak bed. This late in the war, Germany didn't have many planes left. But it only took one.

To his relief, each aircraft was able to return to its position in the formation before they encountered further resistance, ensuring that each would have the maximum protection. Now, he could put the plan in motion.

All it took was the twisting of a couple of knobs to make smoke spew from the engine. Checking the clips securing the parachute to his chest one last time, Joe popped the hatch and jumped. He pulled his cord immediately so it would jerk him above the out-of-control aircraft. Cold air numbed warm flesh as he drifted slowly to the ground, making him wish his descent would go faster; a wish that died when he shifted his gaze toward Schweinfurt and its burning factory. He knew if the locals caught him, he would never have the chance to complete his mission.

Looking down, he was grateful to see soldiers massing in the area where he was about to land. One worry was put to rest. Now, he just had to hope they gave him time to tell them who he was, and in turn transmitted the information to their superiors.

 

Gestapo Headquarters  
Hammelburg, Germany

Colonel Hans Gerber rubbed his temples, hoping to ease the headache behind his forehead. The pain easing, he turned in his chair and looked out the window. A thin layer of snow covered the streets in a glittering blanket. Before the war, he would've viewed the scene with an excited eye, planning a weekend of skiing or skating. Instead, the sight made him shiver. The year he spent in Russia had ruined any appreciation he once had for winter and the joys it had brought.

Rising from his desk, he crossed to the fireplace and stoked the fading embers back to life. He was grateful his office had such an amenity. It was the only way he could get warm these days.

"Herr, Colonel?"

Hans shifted to see his adjutant standing nervously in the doorway. He relished the knowledge that he could engender such fear in his men. It fueled his right of supremacy. "What is it, Lothar?"

"We just received a call, sir. Our soldiers have picked up one of the pilots involved in this morning's bombing."

Anger flushed Hans' face. "What is this pilot's name?"

"Colonel Joseph Gallagher."

The news made Hans' heart quicken. This name was well known to him and to his superiors in Berlin. He had disappointed his boss, Heinrich Muller, when he failed to get the information they needed to win the battle in Leningrad. Hans' posting to the small hamlet of Hammelburg instead of Berlin, had been a direct result of the fiasco. This time, his orders had been simple: discover who was responsible for the sabotage so prevalent in this area. All evidence pointed to Stalag 13, a prisoner-of- war camp south of the city. But this was so improbable, he hadn't dared suggest such a thing to his superiors. He needed proof. Gallagher would help him get that evidence and allow him to redeem himself. He knew Gallagher's reputation. He also knew what had happened the last time the American had been taken prisoner. After Gallagher's escape, the officer in charge had been sent to the Russian front. A week after his transfer, he had frozen to death in his foxhole.

A similar fate would not befall Hans. By the end of the week, he would have the transfer to Berlin he so coveted. Crossing to his desk, he said, "Tell the officer in charge to take Gallagher to Stalag 13. He is not to be put in with the general population. I want him to go directly to the cooler."

"Yes, Colonel Gerber."

Putting papers in his briefcase, Hans added, "Have my car brought around. Once my meeting with Mayor Webber is completed, I shall make Gallagher's acquaintance."

 

918th Bomb Group  
Archbury, England

The earth-shaking roar of B-17 engines flew overhead, drawing the attention of the man sitting alone in a jeep at the edge of an empty hardstand. As he automatically counted the aircraft, Major Harvey Stovall dreaded the moment when he would have to face the flight engineer of the _Piccadilly Lily_. He had known before the group left early that morning that the P-51 leading the mission wouldn't be returning. But Sgt. Sandy Komansky had not.

Harvey had been vehemently against the plan when it had been proposed. There were too many variables. Too many ways it could fail. And the person who would pay the price was Harvey's friend and commanding officer, Colonel Joseph Gallagher.

However, no one had listened to him. He hadn't really expected them to, since the alliance with Russia depended heavily on the success of this mission. And unfortunately, the key to its success was the 918th's young commanding officer. Harvey just wished his superiors would see Joe Gallagher as a young man with a bright future – if he survived this war – rather than the means to an end. Joe deserved that at the very least.

 

A road near Hammelburg, Germany

The car hit a deep pothole, causing its occupants to bounce high in their seats. With rifle barrels digging into his side, Joe Gallagher wished the driver would be more careful. Though it was doubtful the comfort or safety of his passenger was of primary importance to him. Wedged between armed guards, with a third soldier in front turned in his seat so his weapon was aimed at Gallagher's chest, it all seemed a bit excessive.

If they only knew he couldn't escape . . . yet.

Joe twisted his head catching the half-track following behind out of the corner of his eye. He knew better than to move any other part of his body. His ribs already throbbed from the constant prodding, while the rest of his body ached from the impact with the frozen ground.

More weapons were trained on this car from the half-track behind them. It was easy to understand his guards' diligence. They didn't want to get caught in a cross-fire. Joe just hoped no one got an itchy trigger finger, or all the planning for this mission would go out the window. Judging by the soldiers' ages--two looked like they were barely in their teens, while the third was old enough to be a grandfather; Joe realized the odds of reaching Stalag 13 unscathed were not high.

 

918th Bomb Group  
Archbury, England

The _Piccadilly Lily_ coasted onto its hardstand. Even before the engines came to a stop, Komansky had dropped from the forward hatch and was running across to Stovall's jeep. This was what Harvey had expected. He'd had hours to plan what he would say when this moment came, yet he still didn't know where to begin.

"Colonel Gallagher's plane went down, Major." Komansky breathlessly leaned against the passenger side of the jeep. "But I think he made it out all right. We saw a chute."

"Get in, Sandy." Harvey gestured to the empty seat.

Throwing the other man a puzzled look, Komansky quickly complied.

Starting the engine, Harvey shifted into gear and drove to a remote area of the base where the raucous activity of the airfield was down to an acceptable level, allowing them to talk without shouting. Shifting into park, he turned the engine off and stared unhappily through the dirty windshield. "I'm about to tell you something you aren't supposed to know, Sandy. We could both be put in the brig or worse if anything I say here gets back to the top brass."

"I know how to keep my mouth shut, Major." Komansky moved uneasily. "What's going on? Why aren't we trying to find out what happened to the skipper?"

"If everything goes according to plan, I know what's happened to Joe. The Gestapo have him."

Shaking his head, Komansky said, "No! He's an Army Air Corps pilot. They'll put him in a Luftwaffe prisoner-of-war camp."

"Sandy." Harvey had to clear his throat before continuing. "Joe wasn't shot down. He deliberately made it look like he was having engine trouble and had to bail out."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he was asked to by General Pritchard. It's believed that when he's captured, he'll be taken to Stalag 13, the closest POW camp. Once the local Gestapo agent learns he's there, G2 thinks he'll recognize Joe's stature and will go pick him up and take him back to his headquarters in Hammelburg for interrogation. They'll never get there. An espionage team is expected to liberate Joe and take this agent prisoner. The agent will eventually be turned over to the Russians."

"What do the Russians want with him?"

"Revenge. He's responsible for the deaths of over a thousand Russian civilians. Those he didn't torture or maim, he starved to death."

Komansky shuddered. "But why involve the skipper?"

It was difficult to give a truthful reply to a question Harvey himself couldn't answer. The entire plan depended on the German's response, which nobody could predict. "The agent is untouchable in Gestapo Headquarters. It's hoped that Joe is important enough to draw him out."

Slumping in his seat, Komansky angrily growled, "Seems to me they're taking an awful lot for granted."

"That's what I said."

"And the person who's going to pay is the skipper."

Harvey sighed and rested his forehead against the steering wheel, unable to fight the image of a bleeding and broken Gallagher from flooding his mind. "I know that, too."

 

Stalag 13

Hunching his shoulders against the cold, Colonel Robert Hogan walked slowly from his barracks to the commandant's office. He already knew or at least hoped he knew, why Colonel Klink had summoned him. There would be a new prisoner arriving today, a very important prisoner to both sides of this war - though for different reasons. However, all Klink would see was an American bomber pilot. What the Germans didn't know was Gallagher's incarceration here was by design. The camp was the perfect location to house an espionage unit. They were in plain sight of their enemies, so no one ever suspected them of sabotaging the important installations in the vicinity.

Hogan was proud of his men and their accomplishments, especially considering the difficult conditions they were forced to live under. The hardship that was the toughest to tolerate and would also be the easiest to alleviate with their contacts, was the lack of food. Unfortunately, it was also the most visible. It would look suspicious if their uniforms didn't hang off skeletal frames or they looked too healthy. Thus they were forced to stay half-starved like other prisoners in other camps. However, this was one thing Gallagher wouldn't have to endure for long. If everything went as planned, he would be heading home before the end of the week.

Entering the camp's headquarters, Hogan half-heartedly flirted with Klink's secretary, before slipping into the commandant's office. In an attempt to keep the colonel in a good mood, Hogan came to attention in front of the desk and threw his hand up to his forehead in a sloppy salute. He knew he could get away with it, Klink didn't know a good salute when he saw one. When it was returned, Hogan shifted into the parade rest position. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, yes, Hogan." With a grin so wide it almost squeezed the monocle from under his eye, Klink rose from behind his desk. "We have a very important prisoner arriving soon. I want you to make arrangements."

"Of course, Colonel," Hogan innocently replied. "What kind of preparations did you have in mind?"

"A room of his own, like you have. As a colonel, he shouldn't be expected to share with other ranks so far below his own." A visible shudder shook the slim frame.

Hiding his amusement at Klink's reaction to what he saw as slumming, Hogan asked, "Why aren't they putting him in an officers-only camp, sir?"

"He's been captured before and escaped. They aren't taking any chances this time. They're sending him here." Klink needlessly added, "There has never been an escape from Stalag 13."

"I'll inform the men, Colonel."

"You do that. I want only the best for him."

It was difficult, but Hogan managed to keep his lips from curving into a smile. He knew Gallagher wouldn't be staying long. Once the Gestapo learned of his capture, they would be sending the nearest officer to take the Air Corps colonel into custody – or so Gallagher's superiors had calculated.

When he had first been briefed for the assignment, Hogan had been leery. Its success depended on too many factors. There were too many ways it could go wrong. Allied Command had ignored his reservations, as he had known they would. At least he shouldn't feel guilty when everything went FUBAR. But he knew he would anyway.

"You're dismissed, Colonel Hogan." Klink authoritatively waved an arm in the direction of the door.

With the German's eyes focused on him, Hogan's salute was a touch less sloppy. He knew what battles to fight and when. If he hadn't, he and his men would have been hanged as spies long ago. "Yes, sir."

So far everything was going according to plan. Hogan wasn't sure if he should be elated or worried. He fully believed in Murphy's Law. It was his experience that whatever could go wrong, would go wrong.

 

Council Hall  
Hammelburg, Germany

If it weren't for the prospect of redeeming himself with his superiors, Hans would've had difficulty staying awake. This meeting had been scheduled days before the bombing in Schweinfurt, yet that was all the mayor could talk about. Of course, the devastation was a huge blow to the Third Reich one they could ill afford with resources already stretched beyond their limits. To himself, Hans even began to wonder how Germany could win this war. It was becoming harder and harder to believe Hitler would find a way. Though, of course, Hans kept his doubts to himself. To do otherwise meant certain death, especially to someone in his position. To lose again as they had in 1918 was unthinkable. No one, least of all the Americans, should have the power to dictate German policy.

Hans looked at his watch, hoping the officious man would take the hint. Did he think a Gestapo agent had nothing better to do than listen to petty complaints? How was Hans supposed to stop the bombers? If he or anyone else had the answer, Berlin would not be in ruins.

Exasperated, Hans pushed back his chair and rose. Two hours to placate frazzled nerves was as much as he could tolerate. The time hadn't been a total waste. One way he had kept himself awake was by mentally reviewing the questions he would ask Gallagher and what the response should be if he didn't get the answers he wanted. Knowing the American colonel would believe himself to be indomitable, Hans contemplated ways to break the man's spirit as well as his resistance. By the end of the week, Colonel Hans Gerber would be back in favor, sitting at Muller's side. Once again, he would have the power of life and death that he had employed so successfully in Russia.

 

Stalag 13

With the handcuffs on his wrists and the chains on his ankles chafing tender flesh and making it difficult for him to balance, Joe awkwardly climbed from the car. Even here, surrounded by a twenty-foot fence and towers manned by men with machine guns, the soldiers guarding him didn't waver in their duty. Their guns stayed trained on his chest.

Aware that knowledge led to survival, Joe studied the compound and its inhabitants. As was expected, all activity had ceased with the small convoy's arrival.

This camp was different from the other one he had been in. Here, the commandant's office and the barracks housing the guards were inside the fence with the prisoners. Joe had to admit it didn't make sense for safety reasons; but it probably made Hogan's job easier.

A tall, slim Luftwaffe colonel exited the building in front of Gallagher, identifying it as the camp's headquarters. The officer walked slightly hunched over, allowing the edge of his long coat to swish around his ankles. There was a riding crop under his left arm and a monocle in his right eye. A tall, grossly overweight sergeant followed in his wake. They made a comical pair, but Joe didn't feel like laughing. These men could be instrumental in whether he lived or died.

"Colonel Gallagher." The officer stopped in front of the smaller man. "I am Colonel Klink, the commandant here at Stalag Thirteen. You should know we have never had an escape. Don't be foolish enough to think you'll be the first. For you, the war is over."

It was all Joe could do to keep a smirk off his face. If only the man knew what went on right under his nose.

"The ranking officer, Colonel Hogan, has arranged for accommodations befitting your rank," Klink continued.

"That won't be necessary." The officer who had been riding in the half-track stepped forward. "I am Captain Strauss, aide to Colonel Gerber. The colonel wants the American put into your cooler until he arrives to begin the interrogation."

Klink straightened, putting several inches onto his height. "I give the orders in my camp, Captain."

"You can discuss it with Colonel Gerber when he arrives, Colonel. " Strauss took Gallagher's arm. "I am following my orders. Now, where is your cooler?"

Feeling like the short end of a wishbone, Gallagher studied Klink, searching for his reaction. Whatever decision was made, it would directly influence Joe's comfort. While he hoped Klink would maintain his authority, Joe was realistic enough to know what the answer would be. Even German citizens feared and avoided the Gestapo.

"Schulz," Klink yelled, even though the sergeant was standing right behind him, "show the captain to the cooler."

"Jawohl, Colonel." Schultz saluted.

As he was led away, Joe studied the prisoners watching the tableau. He had been shown pictures of his contacts and finally found Hogan standing in the shadow of the barracks closest to the gate. As he had when he first saw the picture, Joe was struck by the feeling that the colonel looked familiar.

Knowing he was being scrutinized, Joe didn't satisfy his curiosity and study Hogan closer. He wouldn't do anything that could lead to more trouble for either of them.

The walk to the cooler seemed long. Joe wasn't sure if it was his imagination or if the chains rubbing against his ankles added to the illusion. When he entered his cell, he wished the journey had taken longer. It was approximately twelve feet by twelve feet, with the only "amenity" a bucket in the corner. There wasn't even a blanket. When he saw the ice thinly coating the walls, Joe knew he would miss this luxury most of all. Sinking down to the floor, he huddled into a ball, trying to conserve what little heat he could. The metal of his chains trapped the cold, conducting it through the rest of his body. His leather coat barely holding in the warmth of his body, shudders wracked him, straining muscles already sore from his parachute jump.

As they had hoped, Gerber had taken control of Gallagher's internment. Joe prayed the rest of the mission went as smoothly.

 

A road south of Hammelburg

His frustration with the mayor finally dissipating, Hans relaxed into the soft cushions of his car. A shiver coursed up his spine. Striking the front seat with the flat of his hand, he ordered, "Turn up the heat."

When warm air finally enclosed him in a cocoon, he sighed contentedly and took off his gloves. Pulling two files from his briefcase, he settled back in his seat. Now that he didn't have the mayor yapping in his ear, he wanted to double-check some pertinent information.

There it was, right on the front pages of both biographies: Joe Gallagher and Robert Hogan had lived in the same town for several years when they were children. Even more damning, they had lived on the same street. This knowledge could be the key to Hans' promotion.

 

Stalag 13

When Gallagher had been marched across the compound, Hogan had carefully kept his feelings from showing on his face. It was a skill he mastered in the years he had spent as a prisoner of war. Gallagher's incarceration in the cooler was the first wrinkle in the scenario G2 had built. While no place in camp could be considered luxurious, the cooler at this time of year was another form of torture. A stove in the guards' area provided the only heat in the building. Little of the warmth reached the occupants of the small cells. It was one reason why Hogan had become so good at getting his men out or given light sentences when an infraction of the rules called for their punishment. Especially since the violation was more often than not associated with one of their special jobs.

Normally, Hogan would've gone to Klink and protested Gallagher's treatment, resulting in more pleasant accommodations for the Air Corps colonel. This time he didn't dare. He couldn't do anything that might put Gerber on his guard.

Surprisingly, Hogan's first glimpse of Gallagher had made him feel bitter. He hadn't remembered how much younger the other man was. There was seven years' difference in their ages, yet they shared the same rank. It felt as though the world – and the war – had left Hogan behind when he had been put behind this barbed wire fence. While he commanded a small espionage unit, Gallagher had risen to lead a Bomb Group.

Despite numerous transfers from one Army base to another, Hogan remembered the three Gallagher brothers well. It was difficult for him to reconcile this man-child with the youngest boy who had followed his big brothers, Jeff and Preston everywhere. Hogan wondered if Gallagher would recognize the neighbor who had gotten the middle brother in enough trouble that Jeff's desperate parents had sent the boy to military school.

A smile curved Hogan's lips. He had been wild in his youth. It was strange how the subterfuge he had conducted against the adults then had become startlingly similar to what he used against the Germans now. Apparently it was true when they said your past could come back to haunt you.

Once Klink had returned to his office with Strauss, Hogan slipped back into his barracks. Leaving Newkirk to keep an eye and ear on the Gestapo captain and his men, he climbed down into the tunnel. Taking the branch that led to the cooler, he listened to make sure it was all clear before lifting the hatch and pulling himself up into the cell. He was a little disappointed when Gallagher didn't react to his sudden appearance. But he quickly realized the man was too miserable to care.

Leaning back down into the tunnel, Hogan loudly whispered, "Get me some blankets."

"N--no," stuttered Gallagher, vetoing the offer. "The Germans will w--wonder where they came f--from."

Hogan ignored Gallagher and reached down to take the wool blankets from Carter. Crossing to the hunched man, Hogan wrapped them around the shivering body. "You can't keep them," he agreed. "But there's no reason we can't try to warm you up a little. Gerber won't bother coming here to interrogate a dead man."

"Y--you have a point." Gallagher said, snuggling into the warm blankets.

"That's why they pay me the big bucks."

Shocked, Gallagher gasped, "Really?"

"No. Though with all the back-pay I have coming, I won't be eating bread, drinking water, or sleeping on a cot when this war is over."

"At least you have s--something to look f--forward to."

Sitting next to the younger man, Hogan crossed his arms over his chest to preserve heat. "You don't recognize me, do you?"

"I--there's something . . .?" Gallagher peered out of his cocoon to study the other man's face.

"It's been a long time," conceded Hogan. "We were just kids."

Gallagher's head tilted as he hesitantly asked, "Bobby?"

"Yes, unless you knew more than one Bobby when you were a kid."

"I did." Gallagher smiled. "But only one that got me and J--Jeff into trouble."

"Hey, I never made you go along with my plans."

"How could we r--refuse? They were so much fun."

Ducking his head, Hogan said, "I seem to remember you backed out a couple times, including the one that got Jeff sent to military school."

"I may have been younger than you guys, b--but I was also smarter." Gallagher gripped the blankets tighter. "I knew you were going too far."

Hogan ruefully noted, "Too far for your parents, not too far for mine. They never cared enough to punish me."

"I'm sorry."

Embarrassed that he'd revealed more about himself in the last few minutes with Gallagher than he had in the three years he'd been incarcerated with his men, Hogan cleared his throat. "How is ol' Jeff, anyway?"

"Dead." Gallagher's voice cracked. "H--he was killed in the first month of the war."

"I didn't know." Hogan wished there was more he could say to show his sympathy and support. He hadn't known the brothers for long, but he had known them well enough to envy their closeness. The loss must have been devastating.

"Well, it's not like you get a newspaper in here."

Wondering how many family and friends had been killed without his knowledge, Hogan felt the bitterness return. Would anyone ever know what he and his men had endured to help win this war? "So how did the top brass talk you into this crazy plan?"

"A few months ago, I had a mission that called for a landing in Russia to refuel. I made a few friends while I was there. All of them had lost family or friends in Leningrad. I owed it to them to try to make things right."

Hogan smiled. "Even when you were a kid you were a good friend. You never squealed on us, even when it wasn't your fault."

"I didn't dare." Gallagher shrugged. "Jeff would've killed me if I had."

"Not with Preston protecting you."

"Preston couldn't tolerate tattletales of any age."

"Colonel." Sergeant Carter popped his head out of the hatch. Seeing the two men, he quickly amended, "Colonels, a car just drove through the gate."

Stiffly climbing to his feet, Hogan took the blankets from Gallagher. "Carter, get the men in position; looks like it's show time."

 

918th Bomb Group  
Archbury, England

When Komansky came storming out of Gallagher's office, Stovall quickly caught the door before it could slam shut, glad he had taken the precaution of standing nearby. He knew their new commanding officer wouldn't approve of such a display. Komansky could end up being demoted, if not put in the brig for insubordination. Carefully closing the door, Harvey waited until he heard the distinctive click before he addressed the younger man. "Sandy, you have to be careful."

"Me?" Though obviously fuming, Komansky kept his voice low. "Do you know what that lunatic has planned for tomorrow?"

"A practice mission isn't such a bad idea for a new group leader. It's a way to get to know his men."

"Even when the mission's over France?"

Stovall winced. While it was true the Germans didn't have many fighters left, it didn't mean they wouldn't fight back at all. A practice mission meant the B-17's wouldn't be carrying bombs but it also meant they would have little ammunition. It was dangerous and unnecessary to conduct drills so close to enemy territory. He knew it was Henderson's way of trying to show the group and the top brass that he was better than Joe, but it didn't excuse what Harvey saw as gross negligence. The only person Joe ever put in pointless danger was himself – never his men.

"I sure miss the skipper," said Komansky, dropping into his chair with a defeated sigh.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Harvey whispered, "So do I."

 

Stalag 13

Hans tried to contain his excitement. It wouldn't look good if his subordinates saw him as less than professional. There was always a chance they wouldn't fear him. Without fear, his power diminished. However, the closer they got to the prison camp, the harder it was to remain aloof.

When the car coasted to a stop, he didn't wait for his driver to open his door. He exited as quickly as he could. Waving Klink away with an imperious hand, he addressed his aide, "Captain Strauss, where is the cooler?"

"This way, sir." Strauss indicated the path to a building at the edge of camp.

Handing his briefcase to the younger officer, Hans put his hands behind his back as he walked swiftly to his destination. Normally, he would notice and revel in the fear twisting the faces of everyone he passed, but for once he was too preoccupied.

Anticipation making his hands shake, he waved Strauss away and entered the cooler alone. Walking to the only inhabited cell, his eyes went directly to its occupant. From the stories he had heard and the awe in the voices of his superiors when they spoke of Colonel Joseph Gallagher, Hans had expected a larger than life figure. Instead, he found a young man of medium height, with no presence at all. Hans felt anger replace his excitement. No officer this young and this unprepossessing could command such respect. There had to be a mistake. This man was an impersonator. "I'm Colonel Hans Gerber. Who are you?" he demanded.

Awkwardly climbing to his feet, Gallagher stood at attention. "Colonel Joseph A. Gallagher, United States Army Air –"

"You are not!" Gerber snapped. "Tell me who you are, and I will spare your life."

His eyes meeting Gerber's, Gallagher pulled out his dog tags. "Colonel Joseph A. Gallagher—"

Gerber backhanded Gallagher, throwing the smaller man back against the wall.

Blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, Gallagher slowly rose to his feet. "You can hit me all you want, Colonel. It won't change who I am."

Rage blinding him, Gerber struck again.

Holding his hand to his left cheek, Joe climbed slowly to stand in front of the other man, wondering why he should bother. "Colonel Jo—"

When he hit the wall this time, he did so head first. Dazed, Joe leaned against the cement block, letting it support him until his legs stopped trembling, and he could see straight. When he finally pushed away, he braced himself for another blow, but didn't invite it by trying to convince the colonel of his identity. Of all the scenarios G2 had developed, the possibility that Gallagher wouldn't be recognized had never factored into any of them. Joe wasn't sure what to say that would convince Gerber.

"You are too young to hold such a position," Gerber insisted, pacing the confined space.

Knowing no matter what he did, it would be deemed an act of defiance, Joe asked, "Why would I pretend to be someone I'm not?"

Gerber stopped and stared at the blank wall. "What city will be bombed next?"

"I don't know." Joe threw his arms up to protect his head when a fist slammed into his face.

"If you are Colonel Gallagher," growled Gerber, "you would know."

"My superiors wouldn't give me vital information before going on a mission. There was always a possibility I'd be shot down."

This information elicited the same response. Finding it more difficult to regain his feet, Joe rested against the solid barrier. If Gerber wanted to hit him again, he could come down to Joe's level. When a boot slammed into his side, Joe decided his plan had flaws. Trying to suppress a moan, he slowly pushed up the wall, chains clanking noisily until he could put his full weight on his feet. Using his arm to wipe away the blood dripping off his chin, he stared at Gerber, waiting uneasily for the man's next move.

"If you do not tell me the truth, I will have you shot."

There was an edge in the shrill voice that told Joe the man wasn't bluffing. Proudly lifting his head, he said, "Go ahead, but I don't think your boss will be very happy. Of course, neither will I."

For the first time, Gerber showed his Achilles' heel. While he obviously relished generating fear in others, his own nightmare was failing his superiors. Joe wasn't surprised. Failure was unacceptable in Hitler's Third Reich. The consequences were often deadly.

Gerber's pacing increased. Joe took solace in the fact that, no matter what happened, the plan had succeeded. They had gotten Gerber out of Hammelburg to a place where he was vulnerable. The bait had lured the mouse into the trap; Hogan would be able to complete the mission.

"This camp is run by the Luftwaffe," mumbled Gerber, "which means the prisoners are airmen. Someone here must know Gallagher."

When Gerber strolled purposely from the cell, Joe allowed himself to slide down the wall to the floor. His head was buzzing. His jaw ached like it was broken, and his side burned. But he was still alive, so he felt he couldn't complain. Wrapping his arms across his chest as best he could with the handcuffs, he curled into a ball, trying to contain as much body heat as possible. It looked like his stay in the cooler would be longer than expected.

"Schultz is coming," warned Newkirk, ducking his head into Hogan's quarters.

Knowing his men would stall the sergeant and give him time, Hogan waited a few more seconds to see if he could hear anything from Gallagher's cell before he hid the transceiver inside the coffee pot. It had taken every bit of control he had to keep himself from taking the tunnel to Gallagher's cell and confronting Gerber. Hogan knew the sound of a punch when he heard one. He knew it even better now.

He had almost laughed when Gerber doubted Joe's identity. He wasn't laughing any longer.

Newkirk opened the door. "Schultz wants us in the compound for roll call."

"It isn't time," said Hogan, checking his watch.

"Said something about the Gestapo agent ordering it," Newkirk elaborated. "I was able to catch Carter and LeBeau before they left camp, but it'll take them a few minutes to change uniforms."

"Tell everyone to take it slow getting into position," ordered Hogan.

This wasn't the first time they had needed to stall. Yet the camp guards never seemed to notice. Hogan could only hope Gerber would be as oblivious. He had listened to every word spoken in Gallagher's cell, so he had a fair idea what the agent wanted. It was a small setback that shouldn't adversely affect the mission. It just meant Gallagher would have to spend more time in the cooler. While he would be uncomfortable, it wouldn't kill him. Or at least shouldn't. Hogan couldn't be sure until he saw Gallagher's condition.

Following his own orders, Hogan took his time walking outside and taking his place in the first row in front of his barracks. Carter and LeBeau slipped in beside him. Both men were out of breath, but that could easily be explained if it was necessary. The most important thing was they were in proper uniform, if you could call LeBeau's chef's hat proper.

While he waited for Gerber to make an appearance, Hogan studied the guards. Schultz and his guards looked uneasy, but not unusually apprehensive considering there were Gestapo agents in camp. The same could not be said for Gerber's troops. To put it succinctly, they looked ready to shit in their pants. This had Hogan a little worried. These men knew their superior better than the Stalag 13 guards. They knew what to expect.

Gerber finally made an appearance on the porch outside Klink's office. The bug in the cooler's cell had transmitted the Gestapo agent's anger quite clearly. As far as Hogan could tell, the man's ire had not diminished.

"Some of you men," Gerber called, "were airmen in the American Army Air Corps. Did any of you serve with Colonel Gallagher?"

Hogan's men knew better than to step forward without express permission or foreknowledge. When no one volunteered, Hogan could see Gerber's rage increase exponentially. The man was unpredictable. For once, Hogan was unsure what response would be in the best interest of his men, Gallagher, and the mission.

"One of you must know someone of Colonel Gallagher's caliber," insisted Gerber, putting his hand on his sidearm.

Worried he was putting his men in harm's way, but uncertain what else to do, Hogan stepped forward. "I know Colonel Gallagher."

"How?" demanded Gerber, crossing to Hogan.

The man's proximity and the look of satisfaction on his face making Hogan feel unusually anxious, he said, "I grew up with him." It was a slight exaggeration. Army families didn't stay in one place very long, which meant Hogan had only known the Gallaghers for a little more than a year before Joe's father had been transferred. But Gerber didn't need to know that.

"Take him." Gerber waved at his guards to take Hogan into custody.

As he was marched away, Hogan could see the anxiety on the faces of his men. Three years ago, this would have concerned him. However, they had been through too much in the intervening months to let this unexpected curve in their plan upset him. He trusted his men to do what was necessary.

A brief glance at Gerber revealed a smirking grin and a look of self-satisfaction. Hogan often had to be an actor himself so he understood the physiological advantage behind the man's expression. But it still had him worried. Relying on the experience he had gained in the last few years, he allowed his very real anxiety to show. Two could play this game.

Pushing Hogan into the cell ahead of him Gerber demanded, "Is this man Colonel Gallagher?"

"As I said," Hogan stalled, "I haven't seen Joe since we were kids."

"You lived next door to the Gallaghers. Don't think you can fool me, Colonel Hogan."

This was information Hogan hadn't thought the Germans would have or that Gerber would have discovered it in the short time since Gallagher's apprehension. It made him wonder what else the Gestapo agent knew. "People can change a lot in twenty years."

"Then you won't mind if I shoot him." Pulling his handgun, Hans trained it on Gallagher.

Fear momentarily froze words in Hogan's throat. He knew how to read people. Gerber wasn't bluffing. The threat wasn't empty. Which meant Gallagher wasn't the real reason Gerber was at Stalag 13, merely an excuse. The only reason Gerber had to visit a Luftwaffe prisoner of war camp was because he suspected - or knew - of its occupants' activities outside the gate.

A shot rang out. Hogan put his hands over his ears as the echo reverberated around the small room seeming to become louder as the time passed. He was about to protest when he saw Gallagher slump against the wall, his right hand clamping across his left upper arm. Blood dripped sluggishly between his fingers.

"The next one will not result in a flesh wound," warned Gerber, shifting his pistol.

"All right," Hogan frantically admitted, crossing to the younger man's side. "He's Colonel Gallagher, is that what you want to hear?"

"It's a start."

Contentment shone from the man's piercing gaze. Whatever Gerber really wanted, it wasn't the revelation of the Americans' relationship. Hogan had a feeling Gerber had bigger fish to catch – possibly an entire camp of POW's who just happened to be saboteurs.

 

918th Bomb Group  
Archbury, England

The door to the colonel's office opened. Harvey raised his head to smile at his friend, forgetting Joe Gallagher wasn't his commanding officer at the moment. The smile died a quick death when Henderson emerged. Unlike Komansky, Harvey didn't blame Henderson for not being Gallagher. He wasn't the first commanding officer he'd been adjutant to in the 918th. Their first, Colonel Davenport, had been considered too easy, allowing the men too much latitude. When the group had racked up huge losses, he had been replaced by General Savage. A complete contrast to Davenport, Savage had been like a rock made of unyielding granite. When Savage was shot down, Colonel Gallagher had taken command. As with Goldilocks and her relationship with the three bears, Gallagher had proven to be just right. He was tough enough to get the job done, yet human enough that his men not only liked him, they had come to almost idolize him. Maybe too much, Harvey realized. This transition was difficult on all of them.

The hardest thing for Harvey was that it told him the top brass didn't have much faith in Gallagher's mission succeeding. As Ground Exec, Harvey had run the group before when Gallagher was hurt or on a special mission, and would have been happy to do so again. Henderson's appearance less than twelve hours after Gallagher had been shot down not only worried him, it scared him to death. Gallagher had become more than a commanding officer to him; he was a friend.

"Major?"

Jerking to attention, Harvey realized Henderson must have been addressing him for some time. Mortified, he rose to his feet. "Yes, sir?"

"I'm turning in. Make sure the preparations for tomorrow's assignment are completed for the briefing at 0400 hours."

"Yes, sir." Harvey saluted, hoping his disapproval didn't show and not just because it was still relatively early in the evening. Gallagher never left the office until all the work for the next mission was done, no matter how much Harvey tried to make him. A leader should have a good night's sleep before flying, but Gallagher thought it was more important to make sure his men didn't encounter any surprises or at least any more than could be helped. It was only thanks to Joe's vigilance that losses were as low as they were.

"Good night, Major."

"Good night, sir."

Harvey slowly returned to his seat. Staring at the closed door of the C.O.'s office, he softly swore. "Dammit, Joe, you better come back."

 

Stalag 13

Hogan helped Gallagher to his feet, careful of the blood trickling down the arm of the leather jacket. This whole situation was almost funny, though Hogan was sure the bruises and bullet wound weren't making Gallagher feel like laughing. Their whole elaborate plan was for nothing. Gallagher wasn't the bait at all – Hogan had been. He now knew he had played right into Gerber's hands. Gerber had his own agenda, mainly to expose Stalag 13 and gain himself a promotion or at the very least a transfer. Of course, Hogan would still get the last laugh. The Gestapo agent would never return to his headquarters or get his transfer, unless he considered Russia a reassignment.

"I still do not believe you are Colonel Gallagher," said Gerber, "but you will come with me. You, too, Colonel Hogan."

This was not part of the plan. In fact, it put a big monkey wrench in it. Hogan wasn't worried about being interrogated by the Gestapo agent because he would never reach Gestapo headquarters. However, if he had to be rescued along with Gallagher, it meant he would also have to be sent to back to England with the colonel and Gerber. While it was tempting to go along with it, Hogan couldn't leave his men. As far as he was concerned, leaving them was an act of cowardice, even if it was involuntary.

"Let's go." Gerber waved the men toward the door.

The chains around Gallagher's ankles and the injuries he had sustained necessitated a slow pace. Hogan didn't mind; it gave him more time to find a way out of the predicament he found himself in.

As soon as they emerged from the cooler, the spotlights on that side of camp flashed on them, lighting their way to the waiting cars. One hand supporting Gallagher, Hogan used the other to shield his eyes. His quick mind searched for a reason why he should be left behind.

"What is going on here?"

Klink's indignant question drew Hogan's attention; the plan for his escape was quickly formulating. "Colonel Gerber wants to take me with him to Hammelburg." Hogan eased away from Gallagher and closer to Klink. "I tried to tell him you wouldn't allow it, but he wouldn't listen to me."

"Why wouldn't I allow it?" Klink asked, bending his head closer to Hogan's.

"I'm a prisoner of the Luftwaffe. You know how much Goering hates it when other agencies try to meddle in Luftwaffe affairs." Hogan kept his voice low with just the right amount of deference, while keeping the consequences vague. He couldn't exactly threaten Klink with the Russian front since the Russian front was practically on their doorstep. "If you give up one of your prisoners without Goering's express permission, he'll come down on General Burkhalter, and Burkhalter will come down on you."

Fear in his eyes, Klink whined, "But Colonel Gerber's with the Gestapo."

"You have more guards," said Hogan. "He won't dare fight you."

"Fight!" Klink's voice went up several octaves.

"Don't worry; it won't come to that. Colonel Gerber has the man he really wants: Colonel Gallagher."

"Isn't Colonel Gallagher my prisoner, too?"

This is where it could get tricky, Hogan realized. Unless Gallagher wanted to spend the rest of the war in Stalag 13, he still had to leave the camp with Gerber. And if Hogan knew Gallagher at all, he knew the man would want to return to his command.

"Technically," Hogan put just the right amount of regret in his voice, "since Colonel Gallagher was captured by the Gestapo, he belongs to the Gestapo."

Straightening to his full height, Klink faced Gerber. "You may take Colonel Gallagher, but Colonel Hogan is my prisoner. He will stay here in Stalag 13."

"Don't be a fool, Klink." Gerber grabbed Hogan's arm. "This man has been using you."

"He is a Luftwaffe prisoner and will stay a Luftwaffe prisoner until my superiors say otherwise," insisted Klink.

Hogan bit his lip to keep from smiling. Klink's brave words were marred by the quivering in his voice and the shaking of his hands. But, Hogan had to give him credit. The man didn't back down.

Gerber released Hogan. "When I report to my superiors, you'll be sorry, Klink."

The threat was enough to make Klink hesitate.

After years of manipulating the man, Hogan had been expecting the surrender. "Maybe you should contact General Burkhalter, sir, just to be on the safe side." Hogan looked at his watch. "It's not that late."

Convinced, Klink said, "You will leave Colonel Hogan. If you want him, you will go through the proper channels."

When Gerber raised his head to glance at the guard towers, Hogan knew he had won. It was clear Gerber had no regard for his men's lives or those of the camp's guards, but he wouldn't risk his own. And right now, Gerber was in the line of fire.

Barely contained rage making his face flush, the Gestapo agent addressed Hogan. "Don't get too comfortable, Colonel Hogan. I will be back for you."

"You know where to find me."

Gerber roughly shoved Gallagher into his car making Hogan feel guilty. The treatment was a direct result of Hogan's actions. As the car drove out of the camp, he kept telling himself Gallagher wouldn't be in Gerber's custody much longer. Though the way things had gone so far with G2's plan, Hogan was beginning to worry that something would go wrong with the rescue.

 

The 918th Bomb Group  
Archbury, England

Harvey signed the last requisition and put it in the box for Sandy to deliver the next day. Looking at the clock, he saw it was still relatively early, too early to go to bed, not to mention it would be a waste of time. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, and it was too cold to take a walk. Which left only one other activity.

It had been almost a year since he had gotten drunk. And, while he knew he would be sorry in the morning as a hangover would still be at full strength at 0400 hours, he didn't care. Rising from his desk, he pulled on his overcoat and doused the lights.

Once outside, he allowed his eyes to become accustomed to the dark before making his way to the Officer's Club. One of the things that would be hard to get used to when the war was over was not panicking when he saw light pouring from windows. It was also one of the things Harvey most looked forward to. Lights glowing out of the darkness had their own particular beauty.

When he entered the Officer's Club, he wasn't surprised to find it almost empty. The Toby Jug on the mantel was turned so the face was to the wall, indicating there was a mission on for tomorrow without announcing it to the Germans. What it couldn't say, was that it was only a practice maneuver. Most of the men would be sleeping or writing letters home. The imminent end to the war had made the period before each raid harder to accept the possibility that you might die, rather than easier. For many of the men, it had been against the odds for them to have made it this far. Each sortie was a chance to even those odds.

Harvey walked up to the bar and sat on a stool. The bartender walked up with a cup of coffee. Shaking his head, Harvey pushed the cup away. "I need something a little stronger tonight, Fred."

"Major?"

"It's all right." Harvey hoped the man got his message. He couldn't say out loud he wasn't flying the mission in the morning. It would negate the whole reason for the Toby Jug's position.

"Yes, sir."

A glass of scotch was put in front of Harvey. Even after two years, he wasn't used to having his drink without ice. He took a sip of the hard liquor and let it roll over his gums before sliding down his throat. It left a path of warmth in its wake. Harvey hadn't realized how chilled he was inside. He had been an optimist until his son was killed. For a while after that, it had been difficult to find the good in anything. Gradually, he had started returning to his old self, though he knew he would never be as confident as he had been before that terrible day.

He had always known Gallagher could die on a mission. The boy had come back with enough injuries to dispel any fantasy Harvey had of a happy ever after ending to this war. But if Gallagher died on this mission, one he should never have been asked to undertake, Harvey knew no amount of alcohol would make him feel warm again.

 

The road between Stalag 13 and Hammelburg

Hans silently fumed, his anger growing with each passing mile. He had left Stalag 13 without the prize he had so desired. It was absurd that someone of his stature should have to give in to someone like Klink. The man wasn't good enough to shine his boots. The biggest drawback of the encounter was now Hogan had been warned that the Gestapo was on to him. It was very likely Stalag 13 was about to have its first escape.

Relaxing back in his seat, Hans smiled. Hogan wouldn't get far. In fact, this might be the perfect solution. Once Hogan was on this side of the fence he would be an escaped prisoner and no longer under the Luftwaffe's protection. When he reached his office, Hans decided he would order his troops to patrol the camp. Hogan would be his by morning. With Gallagher, or whoever this man was, already under his thumb, he had the perfect tool to make Hogan talk.

Power rushed through him as Hans started to plan where he would live once he reached Berlin. It would be elegant, as befitted his position. Close to the clubs, though not too close. He didn't want Muller to think he had anything claiming his attention but his job.

 

Stalag 13

Normally, Hogan would have accompanied Klink back into his office to placate the frightened man, but he didn't have time. Quickly crossing to his barracks, he entered to find Newkirk waiting for him.

"LeBeau and Carter have changed into their uniforms and are already on their way to rendezvous with the underground," said the Englishman.

"Did you disable the half-track?" asked Hogan, lifting the lever to open the trap leading down to the main tunnel.

Newkirk looked at his watch. "The tire should be going flat in about ten minutes."

"Good." Hogan started climbing down the ladder. "Let's join the party."

 

The road between Stalag 13 and Hammelburg

"Colonel, the half-track has stopped." Hans' driver eased up on the gas pedal.

Turning, Hans could see the dimmed headlights becoming more indistinct as the distance between the two vehicles grew. "Stop," he ordered. "Walk back and find out what's wrong."

"Yes, sir."

As the driver exited the car, Hans pulled his handgun and pointed it at Gallagher. "Do not think you are to be rescued. I am a very good shot."

"I already found that out," said Gallagher, looking down at the blood staining his coat.

"Unlike others, I know about your Colonel Hogan, so I'm ready for him. I hope he gets a good night's sleep tonight. It will be his last."

"I don't think any of us have gotten a good night's sleep since this war started."

"That is only because you have not embraced the teachings of the Fuehrer. If you had joined with us, instead of fighting us, we would all know peace."

The disgusted look on Gallagher's face destroyed Hans' good mood. How dare this boy judge his beliefs! Moving the gun to his left hand, he backhanded Gallagher across the face. A second blow, even harder than the first, sent Gallagher slamming into the side of the car. Raising his hand a third time, Hans was surprised when it was grabbed in mid-flight and held in a strong grip.

Furious, he turned to see who'd had the audacity to manhandle him. "W-what?" A gag was pushed into his mouth before he could say another word, at the same time the gun was pulled from his hand. Shock momentarily gripped him when he saw Hogan's smiling face. The man put a finger to his lips before dragging Hans from the car.

Even with both arms held tightly, Hans fought them, kicking out with his feet and trying to scream through the gag, anything that might gain his driver's attention. Dragged into the woods lining the road, his arms were pulled behind his back and tied tightly with coarse rope. Someone caught his legs and sat on them until they were tied together. A bag was dragged over his head, leaving him completely defenseless and barely able to breathe. For the first time in his memory, Hans Gerber was scared.

 

The 918th Bomb Group  
Archbury, England

Harvey held his hands over his ears as the _Piccadilly Lily_ 's engines screeched to life. He had known before he took the first drink last night that he would regret it. He just hadn't thought he would be this miserable. His head felt like it was about to split in two. He was almost tempted to put his hand up to make sure it hadn't, but if he did, it would mean exposing his eardrum to the full roar of the B-17's engines. He was certain that would kill him for sure.

Raising his head he saw Komansky in the upper turret, looking down at him. The boy's location spoke volumes. With Gallagher, Sandy always stood between the pilot and co-pilot, checking gauges to make sure everything was running at top efficiency. Apparently, Henderson didn't think he needed the assistance.

The ground crew pulled the blocks from beneath the wheels, allowing the aircraft to roll out of the hardstand. Though this was only a practice run, Harvey experienced the same fear he always felt before a mission.

As plane after plane lifted into the sky, he wondered, as he did every time the planes took off, how many wouldn't come home.

 

Stalag 13

Joe tried not to wince as Carter cleaned the bullet wound on his arm. It was only a deep graze, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. His attempt at restraint was for his own benefit rather than his "doctor's." The bruises on his face made any movement painful. It was ironic that one injury could cause him pain from another. Gerber had known what he was doing.

"Sorry, sir," Carter apologized.

"Not your fault, Sergeant," said Gallagher, his gaze resting on the Gestapo agent leaning up against the wall of the tunnel, his arms and legs were still bound and the rag stuffed deep into his mouth, but the bag had been removed. "Where's Colonel Hogan?"

"With Colonel Klink. He's setting up an alibi."

"Good thinking."

"That's why we're all still alive and still in operation."

"Watch the flattery, Carter," Hogan warned, appearing at the end of the tunnel. "Or I'll volunteer you for latrine duty."

Obviously not intimidated by the threat, Carter smiled. "I'm just speaking the truth, sir."

"How's our guest?" Hogan quickly changed the subject and looked down at Gerber.

"He's a feisty one," reported Newkirk, tugging on the toe of one of Gerber's boots. "But I think our Russian friends will knock that out of him."

Gallagher saw the rage on the Gestapo agent's face turn to terror. He tried not to feel sorry for the man. His own injuries should have prevented it, but it wasn't until he remembered the stories his Russian friend, General Voredenko, had told him, that his sympathy disappeared completely. No one with a conscience could have done such terrible things. Gerber should pay for what he had done, while those who had suffered deserved their revenge.

When Carter was done with his ministrations, Gallagher carefully shrugged into his jacket. After his stint in the cooler, he wasn't sure he would ever feel warm again.

"Colonel Hogan," LeBeau appeared at the turn in the tunnel, "the contact is here to take our guests."

"Tell them they'll be right there," ordered Hogan.

"Yes, sir."

As Carter and Newkirk untied Gerber's legs and lifted him to his feet to lead him down the tunnel, Gallagher turned to Hogan. "You could come with us."

"No, I can't."

"Gerber knew about your activities. It's possible someone else knows."

"It's a chance I'll have to take."

"Why?"

"I can't leave my men."

"Take them, too."

"All four-hundred of them? There's no way to get them all out."

"Well, no, not all of them. I was thinking just you and LeBeau, Carter, Newkirk, and Kinchloe," said Gallagher, naming the men who had been most prominent in this mission.

"Do you know what they would do to the ones we left behind once they discovered what we've been doing here?" Hogan ran a hand down the side of the tunnel.

"I can guess," admitted Gallagher, reluctantly.

Wiping the dirt from his hands, Hogan said, "When we took this job, we knew it was for the duration or until we were discovered. Nothing's changed."

Feeling guilty that he was returning to the relative safety England offered, Gallagher suggested, "At least lie low. The war's almost over. Don't take on any more missions; then if someone suspects you they won't have any proof."

"Are you going to lay low?" asked Hogan.

"Well –"

"I'll see you in England when this is all over."

Holding out his hand, Gallagher said, "I'm holding you to that."

 

The 918th Bomb Group  
Archbury, England

Harvey laid down his pen and pushed his chair away from his desk. How Joe Gallagher had completed all this paperwork and flown missions as well was beyond him. Of course, Joe did have his Ground Exec and Komansky to help, while Harvey was forced to do it all himself. Harvey hoped the brass threw the book at Henderson, though that wouldn't heal the wounds or fix the aircraft.

The group had been hit by fighters soon after crossing the coast of France. There had only been three ME109's, but that had been enough to puncture eleven aircraft with multiple bullet holes and cause nine injuries. Luckily, none of them had been serious. One of those injuries had been sustained by Komansky, which explained why he wasn't in the office helping Harvey with the paperwork. A bullet had creased his right hand, which prevented him from holding a pen or using a typewriter.

Henderson had also been wounded. He had taken a bullet to the shoulder. But right now, Harvey was sure the man's ego was hurting worse than his arm. General Britt had not been pleased when he had discovered Henderson's practice mission had taken place so close to enemy territory. Harvey doubted they would see Henderson back in the 918th command seat again.

The sound of the outer door opening alerted Harvey that someone was about to enter his office. He sat up straight in his chair, preparing himself for whatever problem was about to appear. He almost fell out of his seat when Gallagher pushed aside the blackout curtain and crossed to his desk.

Wondering if he was still feeling the effects of his hangover, though he had never had one last this long, he gasped, "Joe?"

Gallagher smiled. "What, I've been gone so you long you don't recognize me? That seems to be happening a lot lately."

Noticing the bruises on his friend's face and that his left arm was in a sling, Harvey ignored the quip, especially since he didn't quite understand it, and quickly asked, "Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"Yeah, it looks like it." Harvey frowned.

"Well," admitted Gallagher, "everything didn't go exactly according to plan."

"I can see that, too."

"But it did work out eventually. The Russians have Gerber, and I'm ready to take back my command."

From the disgusted look on Gallagher's face, Harvey realized he knew about Henderson. "I take it you already know what happened in your absence."

"Let's just say it's a good thing Henderson wasn't still there when I reported to General Britt."

A broad grin split Harvey's lips. "Personally, I wish he had been, and that I had been there to see it."

"So do I," Gallagher sheepishly admitted. Pointing to Komansky's empty desk, he asked, "Is Sandy all right?"

"Better than you, I'd say."

Sighing as he saw the stack of paperwork on Harvey's desk, Gallagher said, "It looks like Henderson left us a lot of work to do."

"That he did."

"I guess I better get to it. " Grabbing half the stack, Gallagher walked to his office. "If Henderson changed anything, there won't be any place he can hide."

Beneath the lightly spoken threat, Harvey heard what his friend was really saying. If Henderson had gotten anyone killed; there wouldn't be any place he could hide that Gallagher wouldn't find him.

Returning to his own desk, Harvey allowed himself a few minutes to bask in the relief of having things back to normal, or as normal as things got in a bomb group in the middle of a war. He wasn't naïve enough to believe he had gotten the happy ever after ending he had wanted. The war wasn't over yet. There would still be missions filled with danger and uncertainty. But just for this one moment, Harvey hoped that such an ending was possible.


End file.
